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The Sound of Growth

Freshman Year

The wind whips my hair, stinging my eyes that are rolling at my lack of sleep. My viola hangs haphazardly on my shoulder weighing my body down and bringing an ominous soreness to my back. I glide through the glass door after a cellist whose instrument is decorated with cool bumper stickers. One of the stickers is Olaf from Let It Go and I could swear that he winks at me.

The woman at the front desk smiles at me and I try to smile back but I imagine it looks more like a wince. The turnstile bangs against my legs and shuts as I try, and fail, to follow the cellist’s movements into the building. Right ahead of me, a wooden panelled room is packed with lingering teenagers and instruments. I assume this room is my destination. In a few minutes, my viola is in my hands and I am nervously plucking a mindless tune, eyes searching for a friendly face. I sigh, longing for my bed and a few more hours of warm sleep.

We are herded upstairs and before me, a room opens up, stuffed with young musicians banging away on their instruments. Everyone is in their own little world, their eyebrows bunched together in focus, bodies creating spheres of musical colors. I am amazed and intimidated. I can feel the intense passion these people have for their craft and know that, while I do find music enjoyable, I rarely feel so enthusiastic.

When I reach my section, I am self-preservative about choosing my seat, making sure that I’m not right next to the booming horns. My seat is in the middle of the section, close enough to the front so that someone could hear my mishaps, but far enough away so that I have trouble hearing the conductor who looms before us on a platform. He is unrecognizable to me, as are most of the musicians in the room. I will eventually spend tedious and thrilling hours of rehearsal with these strangers.

My standmate is abrupt. He wants to focus on the music entirely and I am a distraction. He looks older than me, everyone does, but I can’t tell if he is in college or high school. I can see that he is sizing me up, hoping that I won’t elbow him in the face or knock over the stand. I soften him up with some pretty impressive small talk for someone who didn’t have any caffeine. My skilled page turning is appreciated, but I don’t dare ask questions, knowing that I am expected to know what col legno means. This rehearsal is a mess of contradictory expectations: I am supposed to play fluidly right away but I have never played a piece this complicated. What does the instruction col legno mean, anyways? (Col legno battuto is Italian for “hit with the wood” of your bow.)

The music notes are a scribble of marks on the paper, a language whose words I can understand separately but can’t string together into paragraphs. Only halfway through the first piece and I am a mess - hands shaking, tears pricking my eyes, heart beating as fast as a stallion’s gallop. This music is like nothing I've seen before; it's Philadelphia Orchestra worthy, can I learn to play this?

Sophomore Year

We are crammed in the room, giving us just enough bow room and just enough heat for us to want to yank off our jackets. It’s impressive that the cavernous room could be filled with people and sound. The banging of the percussion and tooting of the winds pounds on my ears, blocking me from hearing my own instrument. I'm used to trusting my fingers so it doesn't startle me as much as it did last year.

The music notes are a scribbling mess, a language whose words I can understand but can’t pronounce. I take deep breaths to calm my sweaty palms and remind myself how far I had come in a year. And I perfected that Stamitz concerto, didn't I?

The music coaches stand around the perimeter of the room, providing feedback when needed but mainly observing. I can feel their undying support and know we are expected to love music half as much as they do. The symphony finishes and all the string-players flourish their ending notes, with the bows raised in the hand. I laugh to myself - such drama queens. Did you know that when we’re rehearsing and someone plays their solo beautifully, all of the string players stop to wag their bows in the air? Can you imagine how ridiculous we all look? 100 students, shaking their bows in unison to “applaud” someone’s success? I admire the relatively new conductor, whose easy smiles and laughter ease my nerves, and I manage to not get lost in the symphony music or my nervousness.

Junior Year

Even though my feet are enveloped by socks, they are numb from the cold seeping from the wooden floor. I wiggle my toes as my teacher flies her fingers across her instrument, playing our next passage in Symphonie Fantastique. I nod and set my jaw, allowing my eyes to transcribe the music notes in movements for my hands.

My teacher lifts up her viola to cue me and we play the measure in a loop, over and over. After the fifth round, I could feel myself tiring and overthinking my fingers. After pausing, I put a star next to the measure, signifying it as a spot I would have to practice at home. My teacher nods and wishes me good luck for my first rehearsal. I thank her, thinking to myself: I’ll need it.

Truthfully, I was more prepared for this rehearsal than my two other experiences. I had looked over the music for starters, had listened to the complicated rhythms and eyed the syncopated sections, highlighting them with yellow sticky notes. I knew the entire viola section vaguely and had friends that I could laugh and relax with. The coaches were friendly with me the only difficulty was coping with their oppressive expectations.

In “The Yellow Birds”, the main character, Bartle, returns home after serving in the Iraq War. He returns to his family and friends who expect him to be unchanged and mentally sound. Bartle cannot meet either of these expectations and feels a disconnect between himself and the people he loved before the war. In my music community, I am expected to become a musician. In classical music, it is normal for successful musicians to dedicate their entire lives to music, especially since most musicians begin their careers young.

The idea that I had been playing an instrument since second grade, was involved in different orchestras and took private lessons, was the minimum for most of my friends. The Philadelphia All City Orchestra is considered prestigious - the finest student musicians in Philadelphia. The majority of the students arrived early, took pride in their seating and were involved in musical competitions that earned them scholarships, but also popularity.

My music teachers held me to the popular expectation of a professional music career path. Some teachers don’t fully understand that I am included in multiple extra curriculars and have not committed to one activity that prepares me for a career. Rather than one passionate hobby, I am spread across multiple pastimes not intensively.

Like Bartle in “The Yellow Birds”, I have to face my mentors’ expectations and be clear on what I want for my life. Interestingly, I have found that most of my teachers understand or at least accept my decision, as long as I stay diligent in my practicing. Not fulfilling other’s expectations and not conforming to my friends’ paths can be difficult, but I remind myself of the joy my varied interests bring me. Bartle and I fight internal and external battles that may make us feel lonely or different, but staying true to our complex selves provides a satisfactory reward.

Video: https://www.wevideo.com/hub/#view/825524522

Siani Davis

Personal Essay

Ms. Pahomov

December 22, 2016

I went through the beginning of my life not knowing who I wanted to be. I went through the beginning of my life accepting what was given to me. And because of this, I found myself not finding happiness. It took years for me to realize myself. And to become a better person overall. The choices I have made, to get me where I am today, I am very grateful for. I have learned so much, and have changed so much in a positive way.

I went to a school full of sameness. The dull green walls and brown floors were filled with people who were not like me. Infuriating loudness filled your ears before you could even reach the doors of the building. It was everywhere. They never seemed to stop talking. Every morning I’d walk into people just being loud, mouths extended to their fullest, blurting rowdiness. People will be sitting right in front of each other, inches apart, but for some reason be yelling. As if trying to compete with the rest of the noise the world itself produces. I hate it here. I do not belong here. I despised that when people get frustrated they deal with it with their fists; not thinking about consequences that could arise when they did these foolish things. I hated that school, a place where I was required to go to, felt unsafe. No place should never be that way. In my old school everyone was so overly judgemental. I felt that I was being squeezed into the person they wanted me to be. Peer pressure was common because of this. “C’mon Siani, just say one curse word!” the kids surrounding me pressured themselves to a closer proximity, “No. I really don’t want to. It’s wrong.”, “Just say bitch, just once!”, and then after years I said it. They wanted me to be rowdy, rude, and foul like them. They wanted me to make choices based on automatic impulse and instead of taking the time to sit back and think. I did not want to be that person. And I never will be.

The first day of ninth grade I arrived at a place of diversity in every aspect. I arrived at a place where I could be free; to have the freedom to embrace myself. And in my early life I did not think it was possible to discover and be apart of a place like this. In the past I was never able to voice my thoughts completely, in fear of judgement. But when I arrived here, it was a total different environment whereas it was okay to be whoever you wanted to be. Everyone was enforced to discover and embrace themselves. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to come to this school and be apart of this community for this reason. Me being here is such a pleasure. I have met someone I love dearly and great friends too. If I did not come here to meet people I have met, and learn the things I have learned, I do not know what type of person I would of become. I might not have liked that person at all. I have learned how to be a better person. Being kinder benefits everyone, including yourself. I have learned that working hard really pays off and that it is extremely important in succeeding in life. Coming to this school has really given me many opportunities to grow. For one, being that we are required to have an internship which is so unbelievably amazing. This allows you to investigate your passions further by getting real world experiences that can truly change your life. Having this opportunity sets you up in a good place when applying for colleges. Because of this, you can have the potential of being favored over another applicant when being viewed by colleges. Aside from the good educational aspects, the people that go to SLA are so strong willed and driven that it really makes you a better person. It is always important to surround yourself in a healthy and smart environment to go as a person positively.

Going to the middle school I went to, made me a stronger and smarter person entirely. It made me realize the type of people I did not want to be around and the type of person I did not want myself to be. It made me grow an urgency to get out of there. It made me work harder to be able to prove to everyone else that I could be in a better place and be a better person. I know that if I believe in myself, no matter how cheesy that is, I can get to the place I want to be. I can fight hard against the people that are trying to confine me in a tight area and get beyond that wall. I know that people can not control me, and that only I can control myself. SLA made me realize that there are truly valuable people out there. People that genuinely want to see you succeed and will even help you get there. At my middle school, I did not know anyone like this. But I knew that there was a place for me out there, so I reached to get there.  

I sit on the concrete floor playing with the dogs. There are small prickly dark green cacti right next to me. My curious mind touches the spike on the cactus, I know that it will hurt but I still do it. The feeling of a sharp needle grazing your fingertips slowly starts to wash over me.  I slowly push more and more till I can feel the cactus prick inside me. I release my finger and the dark red blood that I held is slowly oozing out. All the dogs, but one, start to bark at the sight of blood. Peace, the dog not barking, looks at the large brass gate that shields our property from the outside world. The gates’ hinges that have rusted from years of being beaten by rain water slowly start to turn right. As the gate is being opened I see an elderly figure holding a letter. My grandmother slowly starts to walk towards me with glee. With every step it seemed as though the 60 year old woman wanted to hop or skip. As she gets closer I notice a smile on her face. Every single white tooth is shown and the sunlight reflecting of them almost blinds me. When she is within arms distance of me she lifts my three year old self into the air and spins me around. Soundless words are uttered as I am spun till she places me done and says with a big grin; “You’re going to America.”

America. The average African yearns for a chance to enter this beautiful country, but I was different. From a young age I had been told that my parents are in America getting ready for my arrival. This repeated story that I was told made me start to hate this country. At the mere mention of the name America, my blood would boil as if a flame was burning deep within me. Matter of fact there was a flame. A flame of hatred for the parents I did not know, a flame of hatred for the parents that left me, their first and only son for this country. A flame of hatred for America, the country that took my parents. As my grandmother placed me on the ground her joyfulness slowly morphed into confusion. Her face showed confusion as to why my 3 year old self seemed upset but her eyes showed understanding. Her deep brown eyes showed a perfect reflection of me and in that reflection I felt as though she understood everything. As I stood there she took her rough, strong hand, wrinkled from years of working in the farm and patted my bald head. “Nipa trew baku”, she said. One week,I had one week to decide what to do. Would I stay in Ghana, the country who has grown me and I have come to love, or would I go to America the country that I had grown to resent, yet was called the “best” country in the world.

The next morning I woke up greeted by the rays of sun that had sneaked their way through the window and landed on my face. As I lay there staring at the bright pink ceiling analyzing the cracks that ran through the paint as if they were a massive spider web, I remembered. I needed to make a choice. The weight of this decision caused me to feel as though I was in the middle of two planets. The gravitational pull of both planets splitting me in half. On one planet was the warm rays of the African sun, the loud, annoying, and yet loveable barking of dogs, and my grandmother edging me to embrace that world. But the other planet was foreign. It held nothing I knew, it held nothing of grave importance to me. Yet there was one thing, Family. At the center of the planet there was a man and woman edging me to accept this world, a man and a woman holding open their loving arms waiting for me to embrace them. Inside me I was being told by a voice to go to the man and woman, it felt right, it felt like that was where I am destined to be. As I slowly stopped resisting and allowed foreign world to pull me in a scent slowly creeped its way into my nostrils. The scent of jollof, a simple dish that is made up of rice and stew. This scent brought more than a yearning in my stomach for the dish, but memories. Memories of the times spent with my grandmother. Memories of the constant times I had grown bored and played with the cacti. Memories of Peace, the dog that I have always loved. “Be didi.” These words knocked me from my trance like state and as I look towards my open door, I see my grandmother holding a wooden spoon in her hand. It is now that I realize the scent of jollof was not an imagination but a reality. The scent bombards it’s way into my room blocking all my senses and causing my mouth to water. “Be didi”, my grandmother says these words once more, urging me to come eat. I slowly get up from my bed to go brush my teeth. There may be a choice at hand but for now the only thing I care about is jollof.

The day continues as normally as most African days were. I ate, I played, then I ate again. A repetitive pattern I had grown accustomed to. However, for the first time the pattern seemed unique. It seemed as if I did everything for the last time. It was the voice. The voice was telling me to leave my home, leave the dirt roads, the deep brown eyes of my grandmother, and to leave the jollof. Once again the man and woman made their way into my minds. Arms outstretched waiting for me. However this time there was a difference. The woman had the deep hazel eyes of my grandmother. As I stared into the woman’s eyes I saw myself. I saw myself embraced by the man and woman being held as if I was the most precious object in the whole world. Around us, we were surrounded by numerous foreign monsters slowly making their way closer and closer to us. The figures stopped embracing me and grabbed my hands. The man held my left hand. His rough strong muscular hands showed experience and years of hard work. The man stared at the foreign monsters with a look of protection. The man brought a sense of security. His rough strong hands and the daggering look he administered to the monsters brought upon an unspoken promise. A promise that I would never experience pain, a promise that I would be guarded. The woman holding my right hand was not looking at the monsters, in lieu she was staring at me. Her deep brown eyes pierced my being in the gentle way the cacti would pierce my fingers. The only difference was that unlike the cacti, who brought a sharp pain, the eyes delivered a deep love. This love added with the protection brought by the hands caused the man and woman to slowly start changing. Not a physical change like that of a butterfly in metamorphosis, but an internal change in opinions that I felt. The man and woman were no longer foreign strangers pulling me into a foreign world. In contrary the man and woman where now my sources of love and protection against the monsters that I will face. The man and woman where my family.

My past is something that I don’t like talking about. It brings back emotions that I buried inside me long ago. Thinking about what to write and my past I realized that I haven’t dealt with it. I didn’t want to and I was never forced to, so I didn’t. I hid behind a blank face and blackened heart. I cut off all the emotions that I didn’t want to feel. Life became easier when you didn’t feel pain and disappointment. I think the biggest disappointment of my life was my childhood, well what little of it I remember. For 12 years my mom, sister and I lived with my aunt, my younger cousin and my uncle. Living with them was an uphill battle. There were good times and then there were bad ones. The biggest challenge/annoyance was my aunt’s attitude. She was always so rude and nasty about everything. She made it clear that everything was hers. The tv, the couch, the refrigerator and even the dust bunnies that often resided on the floor. It was tolerable, sometimes. I never got along with my younger cousin. Her being the only child made her selfish. She didn’t have to share her things and she could say and do basically anything she wanted. Most of the times I don’t even think it’s the fact that she’s an only child, but the fact that her parents allowed her to get away with her actions.  I remember one time Anaiya, my cousin, and I were arguing; which we often did. My mother was in the same room while my aunt was in the kitchen. I know as the oldest I should lead by example but at the same time I’m not just going to let her say what she wants to me. As we argued I apparently said something that was so tragic that my aunt had to yell from all the way in the kitchen to tell me and me only to stop and shut up. Of course I was threaten and I tried to explain that Anaiya started it and was saying things that were way worse than me but she didn’t want to hear it. I looked at my mom and she just shook her head and said leave it alone. So I did. It was always my cousin and I going back and forth and me being the only one in trouble. At the time I never understood why my mom just told me to leave it alone. I knew that I was right in the sense to stand up for myself but why wasn’t I able to do that when it came to my aunt?

During the time I was living with my aunt I use to visit my dad.  My dad was married and had a son, my younger brother. He also had two other kids by another woman, my older sisters. When I was younger I would visit my dad’s house over the weekends. I would see my family and occasionally spend time with them. I felt like an outsider. Everyone was always together and developed a bond while I only visited twice a month. I felt like I didn’t belong. I was never comfortable and just wanted to go back home with my family. When I was around them I didn’t feel like they accepted me. I never really had an opinion about my dad’s wife at the time, but she was someone that I grew to dislike. To me she was just simply his wife. I already had a mother and didn’t need another one. I didn’t look at her as a stepmother but I respected her as an adult because that’s how I was raised. I didn’t like spending time with them. I would have preferred if it was just my dad and I. I always wanted to go back home but I was too scared to say it. One day while I was over their house I was sitting on the end chair, where my dad usually sits. It was cold and that seat was the furthest from the air conditioner. Ms. Sandy, the wife, was in the kitchen and when she came back she looked at me like I stole something. She said “That’s your father’s seat. I don’t know why you think you could sit there.” I didn’t say anything because what would I even say to that? Coincidentally, my dad and brother were coming down the stairs at the same time she said that. I was thinking that he would have said I could sit there but he sided with her. He told me that was the “man’s” seat and kicked me out of the chair and sat down with my younger brother in his lap. In the corner of my eye I could remember seeing Ms. Sandy smirk. I sat on the couch and said nothing. I didn’t care it was just a seat to me, but the fact that I felt outcasted made me want to go home even more. There was always something little that Ms. Sandy would do and say that I never realized was wrong. When it came to me I always felt like I was treated differently. I  knew I wasn’t wanted at that home and I didn’t understand what was the purpose of having me there. I remember one day I didn’t want to stay and I said out loud that I wanted to go home. Ms. Sandy said “Well you can’t. You have to be here for the weekend.” As a kid I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was the simple fact that my dad wanted to spend time with me not because he had to. Years later I learned that the court ordered me to spend every other weekend with my dad. At that point in my life I already became numb so I had no feelings about the situation. I didn’t and still don’t consider that man to be my father. It’s just something that I made myself believe.  

A challenge of me being a kid was my hair. It was so thick and very hard to do. It didn’t help that I was tender headed, meaning I felt a lot of pain when getting my hair done. My mom or aunts did my hair and they became use to doing it and so did I. They understood what to do to prevent the amounts of pain that I would feel. My dad wanted to go to the my grandmother’s house. Before we went Ms. Sandy decided to do my hair. It was strange because she’s never even attempted to do my hair before. She said that it “looked a mess” and that it needed to be fixed. I sat on the chair that was moved from the kitchen to the living room. My brother along with my step cousin were sitting on the couch waiting for me to get my hair finished. My dad was in the kitchen. As she was doing my hair it hurt really bad, more than usual; so I began to cry. She kept telling me to be quiet and began combing my hair even harder which made me cry harder. I subconsciously reached my hand up to touch my hair because it hurt. Then as I did I felt a throbbing pain on my hand. One. Two. Three. She hit me on my hand with the comb three times. I saw my dad watching and did nothing but go upstairs. I immediately stopped crying because shock took over. I stayed quiet. That was the day when I felt hatred for my dad. I hated him because he didn’t care, he let her do and say whatever she wanted to me. My own dad never hit me so why would it be alright for her to? I didn’t want to go to my grandmother’s house. I didn’t want to be around them or see any of them. From that day forward they were all dead to me. I didn’t tell my mom for years about what had been happening. I don’t know why. I think it was a mixture of being scared and the development of me not caring. I just felt like it wasn’t important. There were a lot of events that happened in my life and it would be impossible to explain in one simple essay. It’s harder to understand my life with so many missing pieces. That’s similar to how I am. I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. They’re lost but eventually they will come back and fit into their predetermined places. To this day I do not have a relationship with my dad and his family. I don’t acknowledge them and they don’t acknowledge me, I like it that way. I’m not mad or sad because that’s just a part of life. You have to move on and do what’s in the best interest of yourself. I can’t predict the future but I would like things to stay as they are now. I already have my family and incorporating people who have not fought or cared enough to fight for me are people who I do not want in my life. It’s easy for me to not care about and forget you. Just like a light switch, on and off.

“How can I paint this picture when the colorblind is hanging with you?”

Doubt is entwined in our DNA like the bones to our skin, hidden by layers of fat and muscle. I do not believe there has ever been a moment in the span of human sentience where there was not uncertainty in the world. A species lacking of instinct, traded for control and freedom, leaves them without a proper place in the world with options so open.

Hey that’s just like me, approaching my adulthood without direction! My life looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, except the top is four and a half inches from the ground. There’s a lot of things you can see if you just pay attention to people. If you just take into account that they are a person, and everything they do becomes so much more childlike and malnourished of maturity. I can see their fear, or maybe that’s what I like to tell myself in order to feel stronger.

As an artist I do this a lot. Sometimes I take pictures of things to refer to later, or maybe I’m in the middle of class and use someone standing at the board for gesture practice. I look at the characteristics of these people and after all of this staring and studying it leaves me in an almost constant state of over analysis and distant thought. Body speaks a lot more than the word. The alphabet is an abstract concept of passing information, pushing thoughts through a filter of audible shapes and sounds someone else decided on, to the ears and mind of the listener. It’s even stranger that we think in our spoken language. Somehow that makes the idea of safety of the mind a little less safe, an intrusion. Words don’t have to mean what they mean. They can lie. They string long like pinocchio noses and dusty fables. The body tells the truth to me. Because if I can see you in all your nakedness, stripped of all emotional coverage, I can see that we all came from the same place.

I’m talking to someone and they snap me into focus. I’m not entirely sure what we were talking about before or what I was thinking about beforehand, as if I had just awoken from an eventful dream, yet too eventful to remember the events after. Drifted from life or something. That reminds me.

When my mom told me that a someone close to me from my childhood (our parents were close, close enough that I call his mother “auntie”) had died, I felt the same. I really didn’t know what to feel. Not even emptiness. It was more like, apathy. I think I was scared, actually, like pushing away the grief of another in order to avoid it for myself, to push myself far enough from death as possible. Which is funny because I spend so much time floating away from life, in daydreams, yet I still just as equally push myself off of death. Like water limbo, and his scythe is an oar to keep me between. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in a while, last time I saw him he was about, my age. He was finishing college, it was his last year. His heart failed playing ball on the court with some friends. He had some heart problems I didn’t know about. I have so many thoughts on this but none at the same time.

Cool. But that doesn’t effect me, We move in on the same direction we’ve always been moving. Collectively, as a planet. I can’t do much about it, I’m technically forced to keep moving by whatever forces are keeping the earth together, regardless of how I feel the gravities of the situations.

All I can really see is this fuzzy blackness. It’s not totally dark, but there certainly isn’t very much light. There never really is, here. Not since the lights went out. It was about a month ago, I think. The lights hanging over my head stopped giving that pure, white light they used to and just, blink. Yellow. Occasionally.

But that’s alright, I don’t really need to see. If I wanted to see I would have my glasses on. They’re sitting right next to my bed on a chair that I have just for that purpose. They lay upside down, open fully. But I can’t really move to grab them. I’m sorta stuck where I am, laying on my back, head perched up with my right arm underneath it, followed by pillow, pillow, mattress.

It’s something like 2 in the morning. I’ve just been thinking. Well, it’s more worrying. I’m worrying about being a successful person. That may seem like something stupid to worry about, but it’s less about whether or not I can do it but more about whether or not I will do it. It’s just so hard to define what that even means, to be successful.

Does it simply mean to complete a goal? Surely that’s too easy, because a goal can be as simple as walking down the stairs without tripping and falling. That’s exactly where the subjectivity plays into it. If I break my legs and I finally can walk down the stairs by myself, that would be a big deal to me.

But that’s only a huge feat in my head. The world will look at me walking down the stairs and probably not even notice. It doesn’t seem possible to treat success objectively, as each person considers different things to be successful. When I moved all of the pieces of my bed to my room, something that took a long time since I did it myself, and I put a lot of work in to make it good and I actually made that bed myself, I felt successful. I had achieved my goal, but the world doesn’t really care. The world doesn’t care whether or not I have a bed.

If I figure out how to stop cancer, something that has plagued humanity for generations, that would be something that the world cares about. And they would show it. I would get countless awards recognizing what I have done. My name would go down in history as one of the greats. That’s clearly a success, right?
What if my goal was to create a new way to pack potato chips. I hadn’t even been considering cancer when I set out my goal, and what I ended up with was not a way to pack potato chips. I didn’t complete my goal. Does that mean I’ve failed, even though I found a cure to cancer?

Well I want to be successful, so why not just do alright, come up with something, and consider that a success. The problem with that is it removes the drive to improve. What reason do I have to get better, I’m already successful by default. If there are two people and only one can be successful, suddenly there’s competition to be the best. To be the winner, that’s how you be successful. But is it really? If you’ve gotten third place four times in a row and you REALLY want to get second and you train really hard and you actually make it to second, are you successful? You’ve reached your goal. Is that a problem with the goal or the way success is defined? Is there even a problem with the goal? You haven’t gotten first. Though that limits the amount people are allowed to succeed, saying that if you don’t get first, you’re a failure. That’s calling most everyone a failure; some people do actually get first. I don’t think most everyone is a failure.

And then where does failure play into it? That’s the antithesis of success. Surely something like failure would invalidate success. It has to be impossible for me to fail and succeed at the same time if all that I’m considering is my point of view, but the world thinks differently than me. If I had tried my absolute hardest to make that bed work and I just couldn’t do it, I would feel like I had failed. The world still wouldn’t care whether or not I have a bed.

That’s what’s stressing me out about this. I go through my life day by day, and then eventually something will come up that will matter to the world and it will actually matter whether or not I succeed, but I won’t be able to tell.

Though maybe it is possible to define success. Maybe it’s like a coin. Maybe you can quantify it, with each success being a shiny green coin, and each failure a dull, red coin. And maybe each success and failure can be given a value based on how much of a success it was, or how much of a failure it was, and the coin is given a corresponding size. That’s determined by each person, meaning that if you think that walking down the stairs is a great success, then you get a big coin to match.

Maybe you can treat the green coins like positives and the red coins like negatives, where if you have one of each that are the same size, they turn into a zero. A neutral. Or maybe it’s more like owing money to the world, where for every failure that happens the world expects a success of the same size, maybe not from the cause, but from somebody.

Maybe when someone dies, they take all of their coins, green or red, and throw them into a big pot, and melt it down, and the world refines it and takes out what’s useful to them, and puts that into another, bigger pot, so we can later come back and look into the huge pot as a whole, and see the history of every success and failure as one big bowl of humanity.

https://www.wevideo.com/view/825484089

Although my palms were clammy tucked into one another, my fingertips felt cold and numb. My stomach felt like it was trying to pull itself through my throat. I wasn’t sure if I was nervous or just suddenly feeling the guilt of my actions falling onto me all at once. I sat restless on the wooden bench outside of the windowless room I knew I was gonna be pulled into at any moment, tapping my toe anxiously on the cream-colored linoleum flooring. My eyes were pinned on the white fluorescent light hanging above me, surrounded by off-white paneling that seemed like it’d be more suitable for a high school band room than a court house. The door next to me swung open as the judge peaked her head into the hall before calling my name to come in.

I sat down in a hard plastic chair across from the judge, with nothing between us. Her typist sat behind her, eyes glued to the laptop in front of her. My eyes stayed attached to my feet as she began to speak. I could recognize the fact that she was speaking, but her words weren’t registering much at all. My brain went on autopilot as I responded to her questions in quick, silent succession. No, my dad never hurt me. Yes, I liked my step dad. No, I didn’t like my step mom. Yes, I did miss my mom. No, I didn’t like my school. The deeper she got into the line of questioning the more it felt like I was slipping into some sort of an odd dream, as her words faded out of recognition more and more and the keyboard clicking behind her faded out into a dull hum.

“So?” She said, snapping me out of my own thoughts, “Who do you wanna live with?”

I couldn’t even bring myself to meet her eyes. I rested my hands in one another. The words sat on the tip of my tongue for a minute, hesitant to come out. Finally, “Mom. I wanna live with my mom.”

My dad’s eyes looked sad and hurt when I saw him after. I wanted to tell him that it had nothing to do with him and I just needed to get out of that town and that school, but I knew no words I could say would sufficiently catalyze the healing process for him. After all, it was my decision to go to court and get the custody reversed, and he knew it. There was no ambiguity in my actions. No excuses I could make. This was fully my burden to bear; his sad gaze rested softly on me, his throat flexing slightly like he was holding back tears, or he just couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted. Instead, he bent over and hugged me tightly. Like he wasn’t sure if it would be the last time he’d be able to do that. To be honest, at the time I wasn’t so sure myself. I told him goodbye before stepping into a separate hallway to leave with my mom. I had nothing to say to her, despite knowing how happy she likely was. I didn’t feel happy, even though it was what I wanted. I was almost sure of it. Almost.

Much of my childhood was composed of biscuit and gravy mornings, baseball games, and long bike rides down the trails that were paved over the old rails that used to cross through what felt like nearly every town in Michigan, but had since been decommissioned. I lived in a good area, I had a handful of close friends, all the time in the world, and nearly everything a kid could ask for. Still, I wasn’t happy. Things hadn’t been the same for years. Not since mom left. I often found myself romanticizing aspects of my time with her and longing to be back in Philly, back in that tiny, 2 bedroom apartment up on Spruce Hill, spending time with her and my sister. Playing board games, going for walks, watching movies, just the three of us. I longed for that, especially in an environment where I really did feel so alone. I had my friends at school, but my nights and weekends were spent simply sat in front of a TV waiting for my dad to finish working so we could eat, or sitting in my room in dim lighting, drawing for hours on end with a terrible local radio station playing beside me. As I got older, I found myself growing into myself more and more, and I felt less alone over all, but I began to feel like I was disconnected from the town we were in, like I was just meant for a bigger city with people who were more like me, in a school that challenged me. I guess that’s when the idea of changing custody first began.

After 7 years of going to school in Michigan and Philly being somewhat of an afterthought being reserved for school breaks exclusively, in late June of 2013, 4 months after I went to court to testify to get it changed, the custody order was reversed, with my mom being granted primary custody. It was a pretty happy day for my mom, sister, and I. We began to make plans concerning high school and where we would be living. West Philly was a home to me and my sister, but not so much for my mom, who spent most of her time in Center City with her boyfriend of 8 years, Robert. In what seemed like nearly sudden succession, I was thrust into a new school, a new home, and what felt like a new family.

The funny thing about moving to a spot that you view as almost a vacation destination is that once the honeymoon phase is over and the real world sets in, the novelty disappears very very quickly. After being put into a higher pressure situation of a prestigious preparatory school, with my mom now being the one who had to take responsibility for my grades and such, her true parenting style began to reveal itself. Her emotionally driven anger when things weren’t falling in place as she wanted them to, her lack of empathy towards me and the constantly morphing environment around me, her long lists of rules. It was somewhat of a shock to my system compared to my dad’s near laissez-faire parenting. When she didn’t have to deal with the pressures of things like school and how they affected me, she was a great mother. But when she tried to interject herself into my school and social life it just complicated things and made me feel like I just was never good enough. It was nothing like what I had expected or hoped for, and absolutely nothing like what I was used to. The new school that I was placed in was a complete shift from the terrible public schools I’d been going to, but I soon found that the workload was just barely manageable and I was unlike the vast majority of the students who attended there as well. It all took a major toll on me. I felt more alone than ever, suffocated by my home life and new school, spiraling into depressive patterns, crushed by the weight of my constantly evolving environment.

I could do nothing about the situation I went through as a kid, but this situation was one that I intentionally and deliberately manipulated to get what I thought I wanted. Why then did I feel so absolutely out of control? In essence, I believe that it boils down to the relationship between oneself and the changing world. When things are out of your control, you have no choice but to let go and accept it. When things are in your control and need to be changed, you can simply just hope that you have the strength to change it. But what kind of a person chooses to do something for no reason other than selfishness that didn’t need to be changed, knowing they’d potentially hurt someone in the process? Nothing reveals who you are as a person more than the decisions you meticulously plot out.

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” - Leo Tolstoy

I was perplexed. There were so many choices, but so many did not seem like enough. Enough for me at least. This was the first day of high school. I was dead center in the middle of the room. There were missing tiles in the ceiling above me. The stage in front of me sat crooked as many new freshies ran across it playing. I could hear the whispers of others. “They are so immature.”, “This is high school.”, “They aren’t going to last long here.”. I turn around to see where these comments were coming from. It was the bougies. They have not yet been labeled, but that’s who they were. What if they were judging me? I was standing alone in the middle of the room. These thoughts roamed around in my head for a while until I was distracted by another group of students. They were sitting in the corner of the room. All chill, seeming like they didn’t have a care in the world to give. Their surroundings did not matter. I corrected my posture and stood tall. I found myself trying to be like one of them. “You’re changing yourself J’Lynn!” I almost thought out loud. This was not good. I shouldn’t have to change myself to fit in. Well, at least not on the first day. I didn’t even know who these people were. I moved on. I realized that there were a few students scattered throughout the room, just sitting in random places. Their hands were holding their faces and their phones were holding their attention. They did not seem to be connected to the world around them. In fact, they were disconnected from the world around them. Unbothered and uninterested in the mild chaos of a new class. Maybe I should take a seat and decide later. My phone was on the verge of dying, so this was not a good idea. I saw the girl I was with not too long ago. The period just before we were dancing to the incredible songs of High School Musical. What else would new freshmen be dancing to on the first day of school? But she. She did not seem to notice that I was all alone. After a couple of jigs, she left me. She left like we’d never even associated with each other. Like we did not just bust out dance moves from a Disney Channel classic. I guess that means I just did not matter.

It seemed like a hack. A hack that I just could not get the hang of. How come everyone else had no difficulty with what I was trying to do? What I was trying to do was fit in. These groups of kids scattered in sections around me seemed like they have know each other for an eternity. And I knew no one and no one knew me. This was when the idea of change came to mind. Thoughts of “if I do this then that will…” or “maybe if I wear this then they will…” flooded my head. It became a constant thing. A custom routine. These thoughts appeared so frequently that I could no longer concentrated on the important things. My thoughts were unimportant. There were better things to be worried about at the time. Like school.

I had coped with the idea of change. The you should never change yourself for others quotes were settling in. I could change myself if it was for me though, and in a way, the change was for me. I wanted to become a better person. To me, becoming a better meant that I was a positive spirited person and made everyone feel appreciated. It also meant that I had an open mind and did nothing to provoke anyone. Even if nobody cared at all, which would most likely be the case, I wanted to do this for myself.

The further into freshman year I got, the more I realized that being a nice person was not the easiest thing to do. Apparently, to some, it was a crime to be nice. No matter what I did there was always someone who took my kindness for granted. They would notice it, take it, and stomp on it. Sometimes in my face, but most times behind my back. Sometimes it was appreciated but more than most times it was not. “You’re too nice,” a few would say in the most bitchy way possible. And others would disagree. “What? J’Lynn’s not nice!”, in the highest voice ever. This all confused me. So was I nice or not? This only made me push harder. I decided that I was going to stick with this tactic of being nice. My goal was still set. I still wanted to be a better person. And I was going to do whatever it took to achieve that goal.

Sophomore year was a lot easier. I actually knew people. I had my share of friends and teachers that I liked. But what I did not have was somebody who knew me. I had my two best friends and an upcoming squad, but these people did not know who I was. I say this because I still did not know who I was. The process of changing yourself was a little disconcerting. I never knew what to expect. I was never certain of where my actions would lead me. It was like that movie Yes Man with Jim Carrey. Living in the affirmative, he was never aware of what he was getting himself into, but he continued to follow through with his conviction. This was me. I was so determined to finish achieving my goal and as a result, I could barely predict my future.

As I was on the journey of becoming a “better” person, there were also a few other thoughts going through my head. I had set my past life aside to start a new one. Was this the best idea? All my accomplishments were going to be buried in the shadows of my new life. So what was I working with? Who was I going to be. At SLA it seemed like giving yourself a new name was a trend. Was I going to be apart of that trend? My name was already good enough, anyway the hassle of getting people to remember that you changed it was too much. What did I want people to know about me? I was not too sure. I was already in the process of putting myself out there, or at least I thought I was. People should know enough, but is enough ever enough? If people want to know something about me then they could ask me. I didn’t feel obligated to tell people about myself, unless they asked. Imagine walking up to someone and telling them what you ate for dinner two nights ago. It’s oddly strange, but that’s how I imagine it would feel like if I were to tell someone about myself without them asking.

The identity crisis didn’t end in freshmen year nor sophomore year. It stuck with me through my journey of high school. It rode with me in the sidecar of my motorcycle. Forever. And we traveled down an endless road. To this day I still consider my actions to be of better quality than they ever were before. I’m pretty satisfied with what I done with my life. If it was not for me wanting to become a better person, I would have never known the people I know today. That includes mentors and, best of all, friends. I never believed the phrase “you can do anything if you put your mind to it” because I took it too literally. But now I understand. I can achieve anything if I put my mind to it and never give up. Even with little motivation, if I want it I can go get it. I feel my goal being achieved, but this isn’t the end. If I could change myself for better over the course of two years then imagine what I could do in three or maybe five years. Time seems endless, until it ends of course, so why not make the most if it?

Everything, I believe, starts with a question. So I think it is fitting to pose a question to start. “How did I get here?” Let me rephrase that since that seems a little broad. I do know how I got into the world. I’ve had the bird and the bees talk so maybe the more fitting question/s is “How did I get here in SLA? How did I change to the point that I am comfortable here in this school that I, at first, didn’t even want to go to?” I have asked myself this question constantly. And now as I sit here with my friends in a huge circle as we trade gifts, I will finally sit down and try to answer it.  How did I get here surrounded by such wonderful people?

Walking down the halls of Wagner Middle School, I walked through the middle. There were only three types of people who walk down the middle, the trouble makers, teachers and the student government. And being in my third year of student government, I walked down the middle with all the confidence in the world . It was almost the end of my eighth grade year and it was around the time that everyone was receiving our acceptances to high schools. Finally making it to the office with my friend Kierra in tow we walked in collecting our paper that told us what schools we got into. We were hoping on going to Central together for the longest while. We took a deep breath before opening our letters. I didn’t even bother to read the letter carefully opting to look at the schools I got accepted to.

‘Palumbo-Center City- Accepted

Carver-Waitlisted

Some other school I don’t even remember- Accepted

Science Leadership Academy- Accepted

Central High School- Waitlisted’

Despite everything, I was angry. Not sad. Angry.  I felt like they should be honored that I was applying to their school. They should be saying, “She’s 12 and she’s applying to our school!? We have to let her in!” If you couldn’t guess, I had an ego and a large one at that over the fact that I was younger than everyone else. Trying to shake off my anger,  I looked over at Kierra to see if she was having a better time than me. She, however, was not. She was bawling her eyes out. I thanked the secretary and led Kierra out of the office. We went to the bathroom, cleaned her up and then went back to where our other friends were waiting. Turns out Kierra had been flat out rejected as well as everyone else. I was the only one that was waitlisted. They tried to convince me to go there held my ground saying I would rather go to Palumbo with them until our math teacher heard us. He gave the class a worksheet and called me outside and asked to see my list of schools that I  got into. I still remember the words Mr. Oh said to me to this day. ‘Paul-Ann, I know you want to be with your friends and all but you need to think about what’s best for you. Palumbo won’t show your true nature and waiting on a school that waitlisted you will not be good for you. Go to SLA. You’ll love it there.” Not even wanting to listen to him, I nodded and he let me back in the class.

I went home to my mother and told her the results of what schools I got into and my decision. She said “No.” She didn’t believe that was a good idea. “ You are going to SLA, you can make new friends.” I couldn’t believe that she was doing this to me but I nodded and accepted that I was going to SLA whether I wanted to or not.

Fast forward to August 2014, Summer Institute of SLA. I still haven’t changed my mind about not wanting to go to SLA. I still knew no one. No one except Sam and even then we weren’t close. My ego had gotten me in trouble with him already. I rather not share how but it was not fun. All I can tell you is that it was a wake up call. A wake up call thatat I’m not better than everyone. I’m not the best even if I am younger. Thankfully, this lowered my ego but it also lowered my self confidence into dangerous territory. I no longer would walk in the center of things but tend to stay closer to the walls. I wouldn’t speak up about my age in fear people would judge me rather than praise me. So going to SLA after this change while knowing no one, it was very scary. I didn’t have any confidence to make any friends and I was scared of staying alone and becoming a loner.

“Are you okay?” Meet Alexa Lahr, a sweet and model worthy girl who decided to talk to me.

“Y-Yes. Sorry.” I also had a habit of apologizing for no reason.

“No problem. You look scared, how about staying by me for today?” I nodded without hesitation. She was really nice to me and I realized that being here might not be so bad. Until the first day of school. We were shown our advisories and luckily Alexa was in mine, however, she had already formed a group and I was once again left alone. We were forced to do ice breakers and sit with people you didn’t already know, so I chose to sit with three girls. They introduced themselves as Lily, Jhazzelle and Jae. I grew closer to Jae until we were split into streams and once again I was forced away from someone I got close to. I decided from then on not to talk to anyone. In our streams, we were introduced to our Bio-Chem teacher, Ms. Sessa. She put me at a table with Sam, a  girl and a guy. The girl introduced herself as Avery, very wildly. I already liked Avery. She was everything I wanted to be. Not afraid to be who I want to be without the ego. The other person was CJ. CJ introduced himself with a joke following it. I really liked my group already. Who knew these would be the people I grew the closest with these following high school years,  

“Paul-Ann are you there?” I hear Sam’s voice ring out. I was brought out of my memories from his voice. I smile and shake my head as CJ makes a weird joke. CJ, my wonderfully weird friend. Avery proposes a game and while everyone says yes, I decide to sit out choosing to observe. Avery, the girl I like to think of as a sister. Eleanor proposes BS. Eleanor, the one I like to think of as a motherly figure, the mommy of the group. Jessica smiles deviously but we all know she sucks at lying. Jessica, another one that I like to think of as a sister. Halfway through the game, Zoe screams, a sure sign that she is losing. Zoe, although I was never close to her, I’m glad to have her as a friend. Claire tries to calm her down. Claire, a total sweetheart, a great friend. Sam just shakes his head. And then there’s Sam. My ex but we’re not those exes that hate each other. Nah we’re still friends. My friend group that I love soo much. I’m glad to have them. No matter what I went through and how much I have change, I will never regret my change and how much I left behind. If anything, I’m glad.

The day is September 8th, 2014. I arise at 6:00 in the morning to prepare for another day of school, however this time it’s my first day of high school. The eagerness to start this new step in my life that I had throughout the summer was gone because of the increasing nervousness every minute closer to 8:15, when school officially starts. I’m ready to get through the rough times of now attending a new school with new people surrounding me everywhere I’d turn, or at least I thought I was on this day. Coming to SLA on the first day I looked around and saw the most obvious difference between my old school and now current school. Besides the fact there was no rule of wearing uniforms, the diversity was shocking. I walk down one hall and I see white students, I walk down another hall and I see Hispanics, and walked into the cafeteria on the first floor of the school and stop to look. I see everyone. Right here is where I feel I learned my first lesson of change, expect EVERYTHING to be different and out of one’s comfort zone.

*Flashback to the world I grew to feel most comfortable in…

Growing up I attended Kearny Elementary/Middle School from Kindergarten to Eighth grade. Residing across from the community the school was apart of made it easier for me to establish a name and a picture to that name throughout the school and neighborhood. With this being said, I was able to quickly make friends and be apart of my own group or team of people who were good friends of mine. Teachers at Kearny watched me grow from a little boy to a young adult, and obviously I became accustomed to being around certain teachers as well as certain peers. Peers, that were more so African American. Being around mostly my own race growing up, I sort of fell into a comfort zone where I only talked to people that acted like me. My thinking growing up was “that’s probably only my race”. The way we talked to each other. “What’s up bro”, “yo bro”, “what’s the move today” I only seem to hear from people throughout the African American race, the people who were similar to me. There were no more than two white students in my grade or that was around my age to be considered a peer to me, and because of them acting and even talking different it created a barrier between white students and my friends and I. “Why is he so uptight”, “why is he so weird” is the question we were so quick to ask and judge upon. Even when we were forced to interact because of table discussions there was this blatant awkwardness between both sides. Everything between us was different which made it really uncomfortable for us and them as well.

Many people might say “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover, you have to try to adapt to the change and new environment.” Specifically this because my mother is the one who told me this. As I listened and took this advice, the beginning of a new change was here in full effect and I felt I had to first figure out how to stop running from it because no matter what, this problem was going to catch up to me as the SLA school year continued. It’s easy to just say I will change or become more of this, but when the situation comes along where the opportunity appears to attempt whatever it is one needs to do, it’s easy to become stagnant. The enthusiasm and care to seriously adapt to that new thing is loss because at the end it is common for one to dislike change. Stick to what I’m used to right now was the mindset I had and when I’m willing and ready to adjust I’ll put the effort into doing so or at least hope to do so. Change is in any form costly because it involves time and effort to adapt to a new reality. Because of this I thought I was acting rationally by resisting change. I knew that I wasn’t the only student going through the same uncomfortable change, probably most of the incoming Freshman felt the same way.

Communication in a relationship is key no matter how deep the relationship is. Communication acts as the judge, jury, and executioner who has the final say on whether the relationship lives or dies. Learning how to talk to different types of people is important as well and coming to SLA for me it was critical for me to master. “Why is he so quiet”, “Why doesn’t he like to interact”. These are things I would hear a few times out the day a lot between the first two weeks of high school. The feeling when I heard these things to me was first a funny one. I used to chuckle when I heard this because the transformation from me being a somewhat talkative person to feeling like one of the most laid back student in the school was amazing. Also, it was hysterical to realize how one of the most hushed personality student in the class could still receive as much attention. At my old school, I received the attention but I was more involved with my environment. I was confident to approach anyone at my old school and communicate to them about anything, something I clearly had to learn all over again coming to SLA since I literally only knew one person from my old school that attended SLA. There was an obvious difference between how I acted, my mood, and my comfortability speaking to my old friend I been really close friends since 1st grade and my new classmates I only knew since a week ago. I was around a like minded person for sure. Coming into SLA, I had a tendency to speak with a lot of slang which comes from being around and interacting with my fellow race. There is a stereotype of black people being more illiterate compared to whites when speaking because of the constant use of slang or profanity and was another reason for it being easier to speak to my friends or at least peers that have a better chance of understanding what I’m saying and can relate to the exactly what I’m saying. Especially in a school like SLA, you can be judged for that especially when there are a lot of students coming from different environments when attending their previous schools.

This change in environment was definitely tricky and made me face an obstacle that was harder than expected. However, the changing reality contributed to my ability to present myself to other races in a more comfortable way. Also, I feel as though I came to an understanding that change is nothing more than a learning experience that I will continue to go through throughout my existence however will approach me in different scenarios. Mary Anne Bell from The Things They Carried relates to going through a change and seeking ways to adapt to it like I did with the curiosity of how difficult this change in environment from Kearny to SLA would be. Still to this day SLA helps me with having the confidence to be able to speak to peers outside of my race, personality, and the people I’ve grown accustomed to interacting with which is a great thing to be the best of both worlds in my opinion. Having the capability to be professional when needed and understand the slang that is widely used throughout all races but more so popular in the African American race.

To my apparent acquaintances,*1

I am not like any of you. I am not rich, I care about my work, and I try my hardest not to be judgemental.*2 While I know you all view public school as some sort of awful place where education and freedom die, I hope you all realize that when you get to college with all the money your parents have, you all know nothing.*3

You all have known each other for years. This was my first year at this homeschool co op because this was the first year my family could afford to send me. For people who all profess themselves as being “accepting weirdos” it's amazing to me how little you wanted someone different from yourselves present. For people who have realized the importance of social justice through the wonders of social media, it’s interesting to look around the room and be the only one who isn’t rich or white. I don’t think that you were racist, or necessarily even classist, you just didn’t want someone there who wasn’t exactly like the rest of you. My sin was my lack of a smartphone, my dislike of consumerism and my disdain for social media. For daring to cause any kind of debate or actual learning in a room filled with one dimensional conversations, if any at all.*4

I am sitting across a table from Ned’s Mom.*5 The previous week the group had been talking about government, and Ned had been talking about how his favorite government was “Anarchy government”. Given that anarchy's definition is “absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual” I had asked Ned if he knew what anarchy was, before explaining this. Ned’s Mom is explaining to me how my actions had “hurt” Ned and the “community” by so rudely correcting what he had been saying. I am timid and she is an authority figure, so I back down and apologize. This is all happening a week after I made the comment, because I can only afford to go to the homeschool co-op once a week, not the other days available. Obviously in the intervening time they met about the horrible thing I had said, and this “radical unschooling” parent had decided to cover up her son’s lack of knowledge by having a stern talking to with someone ¼ her age over a comment made and already forgotten.*6

The co op, while also being a social area where teenagers could sit in rooms together and use their phones, is also meant to serve as a learning space. They would teach “classes”, one per semester. One of the classes was a “film class” We all would sit in a room, watch a movie, and then talk about it, any of you remember that thrilling class? The film class had a horribly random feel, no distinct curriculum or direction, and a complete lack of focus.*7 The discussion after the movies would often come down to heaping praise upon the parts everybody had liked or finding ways that movies from 50 years ago were sexist or awful. Now if I ever tried to say something negative about a well liked movie, or defend a movie that was being hated on, the entire group would turn on me in an instant. Not in a scholarly fashion, but in one where I was the clear enemy and where voices would be raised. This would often culminate in even the present adults, meant to stimulate insightful debate would attack a 14 year old for disliking a movie.*8 This would go so far as to accuse me of potentially being sexist for disliking a rom-com that had a strong female lead.

You all didn’t like me. That much was obvious, but I didn’t want it to be. There was about a dozen of you. About a dozen people who lived in houses nearly double the size of mine, were only children, and had pools in their backyard. My parents didn’t have the time to come to the co-op to hang out with the kids and make sure they didn’t do anything too crazy, like ever get off their phones. That was because my Dad had to work almost everyday to pay the bills, and my Mom had to actually teach my brothers. Meaning the other parents didn’t exactly love mine, and I could feel the animosity when they came up. When I came in every morning, nobody would really say hello, and none of you seemed to particularly want to talk with me. My family couldn’t afford to get me a smartphone, and when you all found out, you laughed. Most mornings I would spend simply sitting in the middle of an overheated room, waiting for the class to start, in which case you all would be forced to interact with me.

There were board games in the room and nearly every morning I would try to get you all to play them with me. The parents there supervising were meant to make sure it was a stimulating environment and that the kids did something like play, so in the first few weeks you all let the games be played. Issues quickly began to arise, immediately strategy games began to quickly die off as often the same person would win them. That person incidentally being me. After a few weeks though, nearly all game playing was stopped and the time spent in the trailer simply degenerated into nothing until a “class” was taught. Why was this allowed to degenerate so? Because these parents meant to foster a learning environment couldn’t handle seeing their kids lose a board game, nor could the kids handle losing. They would pout or refuse to play at the age of 14 their parents would choose to cancel all game playing at all. Just as they would shut out anything that disagreed with them or the kids there, even if that something was another kid. A kid whose only crimes were that he couldn’t afford to be there until now and was different. I am glad I didn’t change for all of you though. For now, I have left and I can see that any change to be like you would simply have been a change for the worse.*9

From,

That Weird Kid

Footnotes:

1. Oh god, what a cringy way to start.

2. I say this. Then I directly go on to be horribly judgemental and hypocritical. Ah, sweet irony.

3. Oh. I am oozing with an non judgemental tone here. Literally right after I made my brilliant point about me being ever so fair.

4. To elaborate on this point, the average hangout in this group was disgustingly boring. The room would be filled with numerous bodies so unmoving one might think they were recently dead, with their glazed eyes, slouched countenances, and still twitching thumbs.  They were not cadavers though, but living breathing children draining the life out of their bodies and directly into their iphones. For a child who didn’t even like texting, these were some of the most boring times in my life.

5. Ned was another kid who went to the co-op. He was a massive nerd and never bothered with schoolwork as far as I could tell. Although there I go being judgemental again!

6. Ugh. Even now I can’t believe this adult’s immaturity, at least I can excuse mine to age! Given that she was, by my estimates, in her late 40’s to mid 50’s she hardly has such an excuse.

7. Looking back on it now, this curriculum was not so “random” as I thought. But simply a collection of our “teacher’s” favorite movies. Ah, what a learning experience.

8. Well I guess in retrospect since it was one of her favorite movies though, it makes sense she would so vehemently defend them huh? To the point of saying that I obviously just didn’t have any idea what makes movies good, and probably just saw trashy cheap movies before then. (This in response to me saying I thought the movies musical portions were a bit forced and I didn’t think the boyfriend in the movie was “dreamy”)

9. So yeah, it was a cheesy and pretentious little ending for a letter with the same qualities. With the added bonus of being horribly judgemental to top it all off. Still there in a message in all this that’s good, albeit cliche. I was an outsider, and instead of changing who I was or just shutting up I stood up for myself (even though I didn’t stick to my guns with the whole “Ned’s Mom Situation). I had to realize what was and wasn’t important to me, and since this time I have found what is important to me in things like books and film, in pursuing knowledge. They made me realize that fitting in does not necessarily mean one is happy, and that I could be far happier by just doing what I wanted to do. Which is even cheesier than anything I wrote in the letter, so sue me.

I want to tell you a story about two strangers. One of these strangers wasn’t always one, but he is now.

My story starts here on an average foggy day, but the memory remains clear. Three missed calls from my best friend Indee, and two from my mom. Weird. Indee texts, and tells me to check the news. Quickly, I type on the keyboard with my slippery fingers, as my heart begins to feel heavier in my chest. Then instinctively, my foot starts tapping on the floor, and I start biting my nails as the page loads. There right in front of my face, as if he was looking right at me, was the mugshot of Quadir. I sit there in complete silence, an empty house, with Quadir across from me, while I hear the clock tick as if his time was slipping away, and the time that had been taken away from that innocent girl. It was mocking me.

Quadir Gibson, a “standout running back for the Crusaders”, a friend of mine, was being charged as an adult with murder, attempted murder and criminal conspiracy. He may not have pulled the trigger, but then the trigger would have never been pulled if it wasn’t for him. Towered over us all, known as the “troubled” kid in middle school. Walked in the halls as if no one was there with him. Cold front but a warm heart, I always liked to think. I had the pleasure to spend a lot of my time with Quadir. Often paired up for projects, or we sat together in class where my teacher thought I could be a good influence on him. At first I thought nothing of it, but after almost every class sitting together, and many major projects together over the year, it became clear to me: this kid needs a lot of help. Time and time again he would either come in with a smile on his face, or mid-class he would leave the seat next to me to walk out of the class and slam the door. Visits to the principal's office became less of a coincidence and more of a pattern. Teachers would often pull him aside and ask, “How are you doing? How are things at home?”, receiving the same answer almost every time, “Fine.” I remember the times in the play yard where he liked to play football, and soon yelling out of enthusiasm turned into fights with other classmates. He had matured so much faster than the rest of us, bragging about his girlfriend and how he was part of a dirt bike gang. He was a disturbed child, yet the days sitting next to each other remained no different. Small talk, but interesting conversation. Silent class periods turned into sporadic laughter and inside jokes to fist bumps in the hall. He’d call me “Ella Enchanted”, as if I was in my old little perfect world, and I got to welcome him into it.

Me amongst many didn’t expect this day would come, but weren’t surprised to say the least. It was like reality came knocking on my door, holding the mug shot of him. Adjusting was the hardest part, memories triggered by miniscule actions, images of Quadir sitting in a jail cell with men twice his age, or the family grieving over the life of their beautiful daughter that was now gone forever. It was hurt to believe it, but it was reality smacking right into me. One pull of trigger left a mark on many, and I still don’t even know if he cares. I alongside many others built a safe place for him, which he quickly decided to move out of. The countless second chances, extra help, endless amount of forgiveness didn’t seem to matter, and that hurt. It was like everything I knew about this boy was no longer true, where he became a stranger that none of us seem to know. Remembering times he would call stupid names, or push me against the lockers as a joke and how he could’ve easily hurt me, but I never saw him like that. All the days spent in the same classroom when he could’ve brought a gun, when I could’ve been that girl.

Not only did I question who Quadir was, but when that changed I had a hard time understanding who I was too. What kind of person was I if I was friends with a murderer? How do I feel bad for a friend of mine who did so wrong without disregarding the innocent life that was lost? Who am I to think someone who committed an unforgivable crime is a good person? To this day I still continue to wonder, and many of these questions continue to stay unanswered, but others became clearer to me.

After the horrific incident, I began to realize that I was no longer living in my perfect world Quadir insisted I was in. Quadir was only one of many who made the choices he made and I felt it was up to me to tell my story and to help people understand that a gun is not a toy, and a quality education is not something to be taken for granted. He shined a light on many aspects of my life that seemed foggy, and allowed me to make them seem clear. Gun control quickly became an interest of mine, where I subscribed to various newsletters, and followed the news to study how common these Quadir types of incidents were. School projects promptly became dedicated to this new passion , and in a way it felt like I was doing it for the girl, in honor of her. Then I discovered my love for education. Quadir had a crummy childhood, the particulars I don’t know about. His elementary and middle school gave him tremendous support thanks to caring, nurturing teachers and supportive classmates. He graduated and went on to a top-notch high school where he starred on the football team. So what happened? Why would he involve himself in something so awful after so many had tried to lead him toward a better path?  Without Quadir, I would have never been able to discover a new side of myself, and I would never be able to fight for a life that is now gone. Although I never knew this girl, the past few years I have felt so close to her and I wanted to do this for her.

Here I am now, about 3 years since Quadir, a friend of mine killed an innocent girl, where he now roams the streets of Philadelphia, in which he no longer is in jail. A huge part of my life became obvious, and I learned so much about myself and many of who I affiliated with, but I continue to live my life with the many unanswered questions. I like to think that Quadir feels remorseful and does realize his actions hurt many, but that part is still murky. When I think of Quadir, I no longer see him as a friend, but as a stranger who I thought I once knew, but no longer know. . Three years ago I wrote about this, only months since it had happened and I knew nothing of what was going to come next and still had no idea where things would move forward from it, but so much managed to change in the past few years and questions still continue to roam my head. Quadir Gibson is a stranger to me, yet the girl he murdered I couldn’t feel more connected to.  I leave you with not much, where my life is still quite conflicted, unable to conclude this story, because as of now, there is still no ending.